


the wager

by book_bugg



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: M/M, SnowBaz, no kissing dare, prepare for humor and angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 11:32:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11230059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/book_bugg/pseuds/book_bugg
Summary: Simon and Baz come VERY close to advancing their relationship, and Simon predictably panics and makes rash decisions. Good thing Baz can see right through him . . . and find a way to make things more interesting. // OR: Simon and Baz make a bet to see who can go the longest without kissing the other. Slightly spicy (T/M)





	1. day 1: the bet is made

**Simon**

It’s my fault, really. I started it.

 

* * *

 

**Simon**

In eight years of knowing him, I have to say, this is where I love Baz most of all. Underneath me.

We’re in my bed--Penny got sick of watching us on the couch all the time and started exiling us to my room about two weeks into living at the apartment. 

I guess it’s a little sadistic--or masochistic? I’m driving myself mad, too--but I love teasing him. I love hanging over him just slightly out of reach, making him chase after me.  I suck on his neck because he can’t do mine--and that really gets him off, I know it. I pinch his skin between my teeth until I hear him hiss, until I know I’ve managed to hurt him a little, then I move back to his mouth, drawing myself up ever-so-slightly, knowing he’ll follow. 

Yeah, I guess you could say I provoked this.

 

**Baz**

Simon is such a git when we make out. 

I don’t use that term often, or lightly, but it’s really the only word that comes to mind to describe how completely insufferable he’s capable of being.

And completely irresistible. 

Kissing Simon Snow destroys any semblance of self-control I may perceive myself to possess. It’s a real wonder I’ve never given in to my more monstrous urges. (Murder, I mean). (By blood-sucking). 

He’s an arse, and a tease, and a damn good kisser, he _knows_ it. He smiles into my jaw as he works his way down to my neck, knowing how much I would love to take a bite out of  _ him.  _ But I let him, because I love him, and it feels  _ so good-- _ Ouch! Damn him, no  _ that  _ fucking hurt, damn it . . .

He’s back at my mouth now, still smiling like a child turned loose in a candy shop. His tongue slides between my lips, unafraid. I’ve told him not to do that--if my fangs pop he’s dead.  _ Don’t let them,  _ he mumbled lazily once, and how I managed to understand him with a mouth full of my mouth I’ll never know.  But it’s not that I  _ let  _ them, it just  _ happens.  _

And Simon Snow seems to think he’s immortal. 

Regardless, I should thank Agatha Wellbelove next time I see her (if ever again). Thank her for turning my boyfriend into such a stunning snog. God, Simon would  _kill_ me.

He’s doing that thing again, where he pulls away and makes me follow, and for a brief second I really do consider sinking my teeth into his neck. I could fucking kill him. Make him my immortal companion. (I never would, not actually). 

Then, something stiffens against my leg, and the game changes. 

 

**Simon**

It’s not like I’ve never had an erection before.

Hell, it’s not even like I’ve never had an erection  _ with Baz  _ before.

I’ve just . . . never gotten caught. Not like now. Because there’s really no denying it now.

I let my eyes open just a sliver, and catch Baz watching me, an evil glint in his eye.

Oh no. 

Next thing I know,  _ he’s  _ on top of  _ me _ and instead of making me beg, he’s just handing it all over . . .

One of his legs slips between mine  _ and God, why haven’t we done  _ that  _ before?  _ as he rubs himself against me, and then it’s something more than rubbing (I think it’s called  _ grinding _ , not that I have much practice) and Jesus Christ. Mother of God. Merlin, Morgan, and Methuselah . . .

I think I might black out. 

His tongue is dipping in and out of my mouth, and I try to remember when he got good at that. He used to be absolute shit at kissing, let me do all the work (not that I minded). But now, now he’s good. He might be better than me. 

Why are our clothes still on?

_ Whoa, Simon,  _ a small, rational part of me says.  _ What are you doing? Are you about to have  _ sex  _ with Baz? You still don’t even know that you’re gay! _

_ I’M GAY!  _ screams a much louder, more present part of me.  _ I’M GAY AND I WANT TO TAKE THIS BOY’S PANTS OFF!  _

Fuck it. I go for the belt buckle. 

I’ve already lost my magic and killed my only parental figure. My life can only get so much worse, you know?

 

**Baz**

He went for my belt buckle.

He went for my belt buckle!

Simon Snow’s hands are currently fumbling with my belt buckle. (Clumsy dolt). 

Should I help him? Or would that ruin it?

Am I even ready for . . .  _ it?  _

_ You’ve been ready since you were fifteen,  _ I remind myself.  _ You literally think about this all the time.  _

Oh fuck it. Yes, I do think about this all the time.

But I never believed Snow would actually go for it.

I mean, the twerp won’t even admit that he’s gay yet. 

 

**Simon**

Did he spell his fucking belt on?

 

**Baz**

This is going to cost me. This is going to create problems I’m not sure Simon and I are mature enough to solve. There is no feasible outcome in which we do not end up fighting once this is done, at some point. I should stop. I’m on top, I have control, and I should stop. 

But I have no self control. And Snow finally got my belt off. 

 

**Simon**

Okay, okay Simon, just don’t  _ stare.  _ Not for too long anyway. 

Baz is down to his pants and his fingers are working their way down my shirt buttons. Much more graceful, that--starting at the top of the collar and working his way down. I’m not wearing a belt, so he’ll have no trouble once he gets there . . .

But he pauses, first, sitting up on top of me, giving me time to shrug out of my sleeves. His hair is a wild mane around his head, his pupils are dilated, and his mouth is pink and swollen and wet.

He’s unbelievable. He’s a fucking supermodel. 

In one swift, uninterrupted motion, he manages out of his shirt with nothing but the top button already undone. I don’t waste time wondering how he managed getting it over his shoulders--his face is already crashing back into mine.

As I’m wiggling out of my trousers, it strikes me that this is  _ actually  _ happening.

I mean, we’re  _ really  _ doing this. 

And--wait.

Who is going where?

He’s on top of  _ me  _ right now, so does that mean . . . ?

Okay. Maybe I’m not ready.

But then why not? What’s the difference, really? Who goes where, I mean. 

It’s not like we’ve ever sat down and had a chat about it. But I figured there was a general understanding.

I mean, I used to think I was straight. Surely . . .

But then why  _ wouldn’t  _ Baz be on top? I wonder how it went with his other boyfriends, if he had any before me--and of course he did,  _ look at him.  _ And he’s always been the more dominant personality--Gah. I hate this. I hate thinking this way.

I let his tongue back into my mouth and I stop thinking.

 

**Baz**

Simon Snow is naked, and underneath me, and  _ moaning.  _ Like, actually. Does he realize how loud he is?

I can’t count the number of times I’ve fantasized about this, but it still feels . . . wrong. I mean, we’ve never really talked about going this far.

We’ve never come so close.

He would stop me if he didn’t want it. He would tell me.

Wouldn’t he?

What if he’s afraid? What if those aren’t happy sounds--what if he’s too scared to speak up?

No, no Snow would  _ tell me.  _ We talk. We’ve gotten much better at talking.

. . . Haven’t we?

I think that maybe I should slow down, but I’m not really in control anymore--he’s pulling me closer, one hand tangled up in my hair, the other rubbing against my stomach. For a split-second, his fingers slip beneath the elastic on my boxers, and I see stars.

I’m almost glad when Bunce walks in. (Without knocking). (Typical). 

 

**Simon**

I’m about to lose myself completely when I hear the door open and God, in that moment, I wish the Humdrum had gotten me.

 

**Baz**

“PENNY!” Simon shouts, his voice hitching. He scrambles out from underneath me and pulls a blanket off the floor to cover himself, leaving me completely exposed like the ever-valiant boyfriend he is. 

I clear my throat and try to appear cool and nonchalant, though I can literally feel my face burning red despite not having hunted in hours. “Bunce.”

Penny just stares at us, eyes-wide and jaw hanging. 

Then, without any warning, she snaps back as if nothing had happened and steps into the hall. “Sorry, just wanted to see if you were home. Afternoon, boys.”

Simon squeaks out something that might be another  _ Penny  _ but could just as easily be  _ help.  _ Once she’s out of the room, we look at each other. 

Fuck. 

 

**Simon**

We had been so close. So, so close.

And now I’m kissing Baz modestly on the cheek--the  _ cheek, Simon?! _ \--as he steps out the door, his hair still tossed up and his shirt wrinkled. 

He gives me a face, but I don’t meet his eyes. 

“Well . . . goodnight, then,” he says. His voice is strange.

“Night,” I reply, and shut the door. 

I lean back against it and fight off the urge to scream. What is wrong with me?

 

**Baz**

He kissed me goodbye _on the cheek_. I can’t stop thinking about it the whole walk home.

I don’t think he’s ever kissed me on the cheek. We sort of skipped that step in our relationship and went straight to dirty make outs.

Not that I’m complaining.

I’m just confused. Everything was fine until Penny walked in and then it was as if Simon suddenly regressed nine months. 

Maybe he  _ didn’t  _ want to.

I shove my hands into my pockets and turn down Fiona’s street. I really fucked up this time.

 

* * *

 

**Baz**

The next morning, I show up with a box of doughnuts. Maybe normal boyfriends (normal, not _Normal_ ) would bring flowers, but normal boyfriends aren’t dating Simon Snow. 

“Oh, pastry!” Penny exclaims, emerging from her bedroom. She’s still in her pajamas--no shame, that one. She’ll waltz around the apartment in anything. 

Simon is sitting at their small, circular dining table with his hands folded in front of him, his mouth in a straight line. He doesn’t even  _ react  _ to the doughnuts. 

“Snow?” I ask, offering him the box.

He swallows his slow, dramatic swallow, and gestures for me to sit. “Basil.”

I make a face. He never calls me that.  “No.”

“Oh, come off it--I’m trying to be serious.”

I sink down into the chair, anxiety bubbling up in the pit of my stomach. “All right.”

“I’ve been thinking,” he begins, in his most formal voice. I can tell he’s nervous because he’s clipping his consonants very carefully, just like he always would for Elocution exams back in school. “About yesterday.”

What was that spell my mum used to off herself?  **_Tyger, tyger, burning bright?_ ** What I say instead is, “mhmm.”

“Well, we’ve been together awhile.”

“You could say so.”

“But we’ve only been snogging.”

I have no idea where he’s going with this. “. . . Right.”

“And well, I was thinking, the only time we’ve ever  _ not  _ been snogging, we hated each other.”

“Okay . . .”

“So how do we know we even like each other?”

“Are you joking?”

“No--” he looks flustered. “I’m serious! I mean, it was really zero to sixty, wasn’t it? We went from being arch-rivals--”

“On  _ truce, _ ” I remind him.

“--to passionately making out every time we’re alone together.”

That’s not true. It’s not true and he knows it. We’ve talked.

Well, we’ve talked  _ some.  _

He knows me better than anyone else.

But I suppose that isn’t saying much.

“Is this leading to, ‘I think we should take a break’?” I ask, standing up. I make my voice as cold as possible, but if I have to look at him for another second I know I’ll start to cry. “Because if so, I’ll spare you the effort.”

“No!” he cries, jumping to his feet as well, but far more frantically if I do say so. Simon's always been rather obvious. “No, Baz, God no--I just meant. I think we should take a break from kissing.”

“What?”

“I think we should not kiss . . . for awhile,” he says, his eyes shooting to the floor. “But still date. Just . . . to try it out. To see if we can manage to get along without saying ‘fuck it’ after every argument and snogging off our anger.”

_ But I like snogging off our anger,  _ I want to say. Instead I just stare. 

 

**Penelope**

They have absolutely forgotten I’m in the room. 

 

**Simon**

When I woke up this morning, it felt like a good idea. 

What better way to figure out once and for all if I’m gay or not? Or . . . if I’m actually attracted to Baz in a sexual way, and not just drowning in weird hormones. 

It’s weird to think that way.  _ Of course  _ I’m attracted to Baz. Look at him.  But maybe that’s it--maybe I’ve been letting my attraction cloud my better judgement. Sex is more than just a physical act, isn’t it? I’d be giving him something . . . special.

Yeah, yeah. Chosen One’s a virgin. Have a laugh. 

But, seriously. I’d like to know that I’m really, actually in love with him before I accidentally cross any lines that can’t be uncrossed. And I do think we need to talk, first. About . . . who is going where, and all that. 

Baz is like a drug. Once we start making out, I never want to stop.  And so I’ll cut him cold turkey, at least for a little while. Figure out where we stand. 

Only now he’s just staring at me, and I can’t read his face. What if he hates me for it? What if he says,  _ that’s cute, see you later  _ and goes to find someone willing to put out? What if that’s what it’s been about for him the whole time?

“All right,” he says, finally.

“What?” It slips out before I can censor how surprised I sound.

“All right,” he repeats. “We’ll try it. No kissing.”

 

**Baz**

Well, what else was I supposed to say?!

But the look on Snow’s face--it’s almost as if he didn’t actually expect me to go for it. And he’s so obvious, I could hit myself for not realizing before.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to. He’s just scared.  He could have fucking  _ said so,  _ but of course, he’s Simon. So here we are. 

As my anxiety subsides, a wicked plan begins to formulate. “We might as well make it interesting, then.”

“W-what?” he stutters out, looking perplexed.

“Raise the stakes,” I go on, bouncing a bit on the balls of my feet. I’m back now, all confidence and cocky half-grins. “Whoever kisses the other first, loses.”

“Loses what?” Penny pipes up from behind the counter. I had completely forgotten we had a witness. 

“Hmm,” I say, raising an eyebrow melodramatically. Simon is practically twitching, this is fantastic. “What do you suggest, Bunce?” 

She brings a mug to her lips and takes a sip, her eyes calculative. After she swallows, she says, “I say winner’s choice.”

Simon gulps, audibly. “Ch-choice? For what?”

“Anything,” Penny says with a shrug. “One undeniable request.” 

“Oh, wonderful,” I agree. “I’m in.” 

Snow looks like he’s about to throw up, but he nods. “All right.”

 

**Simon**

_ Just had to go for the belt, didn’t you?  _

This is all my fault.


	2. day two: the battle begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY im the worst i wanted to post this as like a simon's birthday update (whoo!) but i didnt finish it in time and i am fool. my eyes are SWIMMING so im so sorry if there are typos or tense errors (i never write in present tense. ever. this is so rough) but i'll go through and edit as soon as i can! thanks so much for all the feedback ily guys <3

**Simon**

I'm already sitting at the counter when Penny wakes up the next morning, my leg bouncing anxiously against the leg of my stool. Her hair is a frizzy mess around her head and she's not wearing her glasses--how she manages from her bedroom to the kitchen without them, I'll never know--and she squints at me as she enters. "You're up early."

"Couldn't sleep," I admit, my eyes drilling holes into the counter. 

"Is this about the bet with Baz?" she asks, turning towards the cabinets on the hunt for cereal. 

I try to keep the anxiety out of my voice when I say, "I just can't help thinking it's a bad idea."

"It was  _your_ idea."

"Well not the betting part!" I exclaim defensively. Penny shoots me a look over her shoulder which clearly illustrates how ridiculous she thinks I'm being. "I just--what if he wins? Then he gets to make me do  _anything--"_

"Simon, please don't tell me you're back on suspecting the worst of poor Baz," Penny interrupts, and I have to take a moment to evaluate precisely when my boyfriend went from  _that loathsome prick_ to  _poor Baz_ in her mind. Probably about the same time he went from  _my evil roommate_ to  _my boyfriend,_ actually. Add that to the list of things that are my fault; I've lost Penelope's sympathies to the enemy. 

"Not  _the_ worst," I clarify. "Just . . . something bad. Unsavory, I mean. You should have seen the look he was giving me--"

"I did!" She sounds exasperated. "I was  _in the room!"_

I pause, thinking back. "Were you?"

"Ugh!" She slams the cereal box down on the counter and switches directions for a bowl. She pours her breakfast in silence, then, tone completely changed she asks, "what was that all actually about, anyway?"

"What do you mean?"

She rolls her eyes. "Well,  _clearly_ something had you shaken up, leading to your brilliant no kissing idea."

I slump down for a moment, debating whether or not to tell Penny the truth. Not that I couldn't trust her, just that--well, I was being ridiculous, wasn't I? And the  _last_ thing I need is for Penny to tell me just how foolish I was--

"Does it have to do with what I walked in on the day before?" she asks, apparently reading my mind. I really hate when she does that. 

I reach for the box of doughnuts still sitting on the counter, avoiding her gaze. "No . . ."

"Simon!"

"Maybe a little. I just--well, I mean you  _saw._ "

"I didn't see anything," she insists, taking a bite of cereal. 

"You saw enough," I say, mouth full. "And in a way, I guess I'm glad you did. I mean I think we were really about to . . . well. We were very close to . . ."

Realization crashes over her features, eyes popping. "You and Baz haven't had sex?!" 

"Penny!"

"You've been dating for nearly a year--"

"Eight months and three weeks."

" _Simon._ Don't you think that's a little . . . well, a little ridiculous?" 

"How long did you and Micah date before you had sex?" I ask, then instantly regret it. Penny goes red as a tomato.

"That's different," she says. And she's right--Micah across the fucking ocean. Baz lives across town. 

"Well . . . I don't know. Baz and I have just never really gotten that far yet, not until two days ago. And, I don't know. I panicked."

"Clearly."

"Not helping."

Penny sighs audibly and places her spoon down. "Why on Earth would you panic? It's  _Baz._ You love him, don't you?"

I don't hesitate. "Of course." 

"Well, then, what's the problem?"

I feel heat rising in my cheeks. "It's just that--well. I mean . . . It's--well we haven't really  _talked_ about it--"

"What is there to talk about?"

"Who goes where, and all that!" I blurt, and Penny bursts out laughing.

"Oh!"

" _Penny!_ " I whine, embarrassed. Merlin, this whole thing has me feeling like such a child. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she says, wiping at the corner of her eye. "I don't mean to laugh it's just--well, does it really matter?"

"Are you seriously asking me that question?"

She shrugs. "Micah and I haven't had to discuss--"

"Well you've got limited options, don't you?" I demand, my face burning. 

Penny snorts. "Clearly, you've got much to learn, young Padawan. So, how far _have_ you and Baz gotten, then? I mean before this whole affair." 

My brow draws in. "What do you mean?"

"I mean how far have you and Baz gotten, then?" she repeats, failing to clarify. After a beat of silence she sighs. "Have you ever sucked him off?"

"Penelope!"

I can see her struggling not to laugh again. She's teasing me, now. "All right, all right, I'll take that as a  _no._ Has he ever done you then?"

"Jesus, Penny," I say. "I don't exactly want my _vampire_ boyfriend's mouth around my--"

"Right! Yes, actually that's a, uh--ha. Good, good Simon." She's really losing this no-laugh battle with herself. "Wise. All right, had you at least seen him naked?"

This conversation is becoming more painfully humiliating by the second. "Define  _naked."_

"Completely unclothed," she shoots back with ease.

"Then, no."

She lets out a breath. "Wow. So, do you not  _want_ to have sex with Baz?"

"It's not that," I reply instantly. "It's just that . . . well, I'm nervous."

"About who goes where." She's stirring her cereal absent-mindedly and although her tone is playful, I can see the gears working in her head, trying to understand.

"Among other concerns, yeah."

She scrunches up her nose. "You realize the mature way to handle this situation would have been to  _talk_ to Baz about that. Rather than making some ridiculous bet--"

"I'm not the one who made it into a bet!" 

"Still." She scoops a bite into her mouth. "So, who do you think will win?"

"'Win' ?" I echo, weary. 

"Who do you think will break first--who kisses who, I mean. That's the wager, isn't it?"

Ah, fuck. I hadn't even thought that far ahead--I'd been too busy stressing over the existence of the bet, never mind actually participating. Not kissing Baz sounded fine in theory, but in practice . . . Well. 

"I think I'm screwed," I admit. "Baz knew he wanted to kiss me for years before it actually happened--he's got practice. I . . . don't."

And that was the truth. The moment I realized I wanted to be kissing Baz was the same moment I started kissing Baz, and I haven't really stopped since . . .

"He's pretty irresistable," Penny agrees. I glare at her as she does her favorite impersonation of me; " _Oh, my dreamy, dark, vampire boyfriend! Whisk me away for a holiday at your gothic mansion and kiss me under the stars!"_

"I don't sound anything like that!"

" _You_ can't hear yourself," she argues, laughing. 

In my pocket, my mobile buzzes. When I take it out, there's a text from Baz on the screen:  _still on for tonight, then?_

He hadn't hung around for very long after we'd made the bet yesterday and we didn't get the chance to discuss our standing date plans. Penny catches me staring at the screen and asks what was wrong--when I tell her, she simply shrugs.

"You're still _together_ , right? The bet was just against kissing. I think he can still take you to dinner."

Right.  _Yes_ I shoot back, then put the cellphone face down on the counter.

"So, what are the exact terms of this bet?" Penny asks when I look up. 

"How do you mean? Like you said, we can't kiss, that's all."

"But can you just not kiss on the  _lips?"_

"Where else would we kiss?" I ask, although I do have a few ideas.

She doesn't even entertain the opening for a vulgar joke. "Can you hold hands?"

"I don't see why not--"

"Can you cuddle? Can you play with his hair? Can you share the bed?"

"All right, all right. Point made. We'll have to make some . . . clarifications."

Penny shrugs. "Or don't."

"What?"

"Do you want to win this bet, Simon?"

"Of course!" I exclaim. I see now that she's got her cunning face on, and a little flutter of hope rises up inside of me. With Penny in my corner, I just may emerge victorious. 

"Well, then you're going to have to seduce him."

Aaaand she's lost me. "I'm sorry?"

"Make yourself irresistible!" she goes on. "Be a tease! Make it so he can't help but kiss you--there's a fine line between kissing and everything else, isn't there?" 

She wants me to seduce my magical vampire boyfriend. Right. But, then again . . . Baz _does_ seem to have a hard time keeping his hands off me, under normal circumstances. Maybe it's been a sort of floodgates situation--I just have to push him far enough. I'm good at pushing him, I've been doing it for nine years. Maybe there's hope for me yet.

**Penelope**

Baz and I had plans to meet for coffee  _long_ before this whole no-kissing situation. We've been doing this almost every morning of the summer so far--the cafe lies perfectly between our two flats, so it's easy for Baz to catch me on my way to work, and me him on his way to my place. Well, on his way to Simon, anyway. It's not like I'm actively going behind his back to exchange information or anything. If the bet happens to come up in conversation between two friends, and I happen to let slip that Simon's an idiot, well. That's just a coincidence. 

"Bunce," Baz greets me as I enter. 

"So, this bet," I say, stepping into line beside him. 

He merely rolls his eyes. "Absurd, isn't it?"

"You know it's just because he's nervous," I say. "He cares a lot about you. He doesn't want anything to change."

"Oh trust me, I know." We move forward a few steps as a large party ahead of us clears off--a two mothers with five or six children between them, all begging for one too-sweet drink or another. "Simon's like a stubborn child." 

I can't argue with that. "I think it's because he's an orphan. He gets attached to things--people, I mean. States of being. Honestly, I think that's probably the only reason he and Agatha lasted as long as they did."

I watch Baz's face for any trace of hurt or offense, and find none. If me mentioning Simon's ex bothers him, he's never let it show. I think he's a little smug about it, to be quite honest. (Cocky bastard). 

"Any tips on seducing our pure-hearted one?" Baz asks as we approach the counter. He orders for me and pays, which would annoy me very much had it been anyone else. 

I shrug. "You must know what he likes more than I do . . . Although food is always a good place to start, with Simon."

Baz makes a face somewhere between irritated and absolutely infatuated. It's an expression he often lands on when the topic is Simon Snow. Dismissively, he says, "well, enough of that nonsense, anyway" and asks me about classes and work, but I have a gut feeling this conversation isn't really done. When our drinks are called I move down the counter to collect them and Baz walks across the cafe to our favorite table, in the back corner by the window. It gives us full view of the room--even after the Humdrum, life with magic runs its risks--and the quaint little shops outside.

When I join him, he's frowning at his phone. 

"Simon?"

"Fiona." He taps a quick reply and stuffs the device back into his pocket. "She's coming home next weekend."

Though Baz technically lives with his aunt, she almost never stays at their flat. From what he's told me, she compensates by being an extra difficult roommate on the rare occasion she  _does_ come around. "Maybe you should just move in with us, already." 

He gives me a tired look as he accepts his drink. "With the way things are going now, that could be years off."

I stifle a laugh. "Aw, c'mon. Simon will come around. And the sooner you end this stupid bet, the faster that will happen. So, kiss him tonight, yeah?"

Baz scoffs. "What? No. I'm winning."

"What?"

"I'm going to make Snow kiss me first." 

" _Why?"_ I ask, exhausted. Their relationship is shedding years off my life, I swear it. 

"Because he's an arse," Baz says, by way of explanation. "And I'm going to make him pay for it." 

"Can't you just throw the whole thing and end it already?" I plead. 

"Absolutely not. Simon started this, he can finish it too." He is unabashedly amused by this, and I could kill him. I don't think he understands what it's like to be Simon's best friend--boyfriend, sure. Boyfriends get to kiss and cuddle and be romantic. Best friends get kept up until ungodly hours of the morning, consoling and offering advice and lending five quid when Simon comes up short at checkout, every damn time. "Besides, not to sound overly sure of myself or anything, but I can't imagine it'll be very hard." 

I shake my head. "Simon can be just as stubborn as you, when he puts his mind to it." 

"Oh, I'm well aware. I'm also confident in my abilities of seduction."

I snort. "Oh, are you now?" 

But I must say, knowing Simon as well as I do--my money's on Baz with this one. 

* * *

 

**Baz**

Simon may have forgotten this in the months since we started dating, but I'm fairly well-versed in playing dirty. 

I get to the restaurant early to get us a table. I'm dressed casually-- _very_ casually. Normally I wouldn't wear a t-shirt out to dinner, but Snow tends to goggle over anything less than a suit, so here we are. The waiter comes by and asks if he can get me anything, so I order a bottle of wine. It's already waiting at the table when Snow arrives. 

I stand and pull out his chair for him. I linger a moment longer than necessary, getting a little too close to his face. He goes white.

Victory shall be so, so sweet. 

"Evening," I say pleasantly, sitting back down. "How was work?"

Simon got a job part-time at the little market at the end of his and Penny's street. Mostly, I think he just stacks cans. 

"Fine," he says, his voice a little hoarse. He clears his throat. "How was your day?"

I shrug. "Not too bad. Though, Fiona's coming."

Simon cringes. He and my dear aunt still don't quite get along, I'm afraid. "When?"

"Next weekend." I pour us each a glass of wine and Simon stares warily at his. He's not much of a drinker, and his alcohol tolerance is absolute shit.  _All's fair in love and war._

**Simon**

Bastard. 

He's wearing those tight trousers he knows I like and a  _t-shirt, for God's sake I didn't even know Baz owned a t-shirt,_ and wine, of  _course_ he ordered wine! I can't hold my wine, he knows I can't, and he's practically leaning across the table while we're talking and he smells very, very good tonight and he left his hair all unkempt and curly and I feel like smashing my head against the wall.

When did  _not_ kissing Baz become so difficult? How did I do it for seven years at school?

All right. _Pull it together, Simon._ I've got to start fighting back or I'm done for. 

I clear my throat. "Warm in here, isn't it?"

Baz starts to shrug, but he freezes when he sees what I'm doing. Very casually, I reach up and undo the top two buttons of my shirt and flare out the collar.  _Suck on_ that,  _you fucking incubus._

**Baz**

It is by  _no means_ warm in here. I practically have gooseflesh on my arm--and I'm undead! He's doing this on purpose, the cunning little shit. Somehow, the realization that he's doing it intentionally makes it even  _more_ attractive. Simon Snow is actively trying to seduce me, who'd have thought? 

I've got to up my game.  _Think, Baz. What drives Simon mad?_

Aha--arms. I run a hand casually through my hair and as my arm comes down, going against a lifetime of proper table manners, I rest my elbow on the table. His eyes linger on my bare forearm, displayed between us. His mouth is hanging open a little (when isn't it?). 

The waiter returns with an over-enthusiastic grin and a notepad in hand. "What can I get for you this evening?" 

"I'll have, um--" Snow begins fumbling for the menu, completely unprepared.

"Pasta?" I suggest, because that's usually what he lands on anyway. Creature of habit. 

"Um, yes," he says, head snapping up. He offers his menu back to the waiter. "I will have the pasta dish, please."

"And for you, sir?"

"I'll stick with the wine for now, thank you." I don't eat when we go out, for obvious reasons. 

"ACTUALLY!" Simon practically shouts, shooting up in his chair. The waiter turns back to us, a little frightened. "Do you have steak?"

The waiter nods. Simon grins mischievously. "I'll have that instead then, please. Rare." Git!

"I'm required to inform you that the restaurant is not responsible for any illnesses contracted from undercooked meat--"

"That's fine," Simon interrupts. "I'll risk the Salmonella, thanks." 

**Simon**

Baz is glaring at me when the steak comes, and it's all I can do to hide my grin. Check and mate, Pitch.

All right. Maybe eating raw meat right in front of him won't get him to kiss me--actually, all things considered, it was probably a pretty stupid move on my part--but I know it'll at least piss him off. I cut into the steak and let liquid pool my plate.

"It's not blood, you know that right?" Baz asks. "It's just excess liquid from the meat."

As a matter of fact, I did not know that. And I would be incredibly embarrassed, if Baz wasn't speaking through clenched teeth. Real blood or no, he was clearly bothered. Score one, Simon. 

He sighs and folds his hands on the table--bear paws, more like. They're massive. And very fine, with his long and elegant fingers and the way his knuckles sort of stick out, but not in a way that makes him bony-looking (like me) but somehow more muscular. Rough, I suppose, would be the word. Rough hands . . .

Damn it. 

"Anything playing this weekend?" he asks.

"Hmm?"

"New films."

"Oh--I haven't heard of anything interesting. You?"

"There's that new horror one, with the blonde girl in the woods," he suggests, and my heart melts a little in spite of itself. Baz hates Normal horror films--his life has sort of  _been_ one, if we're being honest here--but he knows I enjoy them. He's a good boyfriend. He's a very, very good boyfriend . . .

 _Be strong, Simon!_ I think, at the same time another part of me screams,  _look at him! Look how sweet he is!_

 _No,_ I have to tell myself.  _Baz is not_ sweet.  _Baz is crafty and sly and entirely Machiavellian_ (Penny's word, not mine) _. He knows what he's doing. He's bluffing._

"Oh, yeah," I say. "That looked good."

He flashes his teeth and my stomach drops to the floor. "'Good' is . . . one word for it, I suppose." 

"Well, we don't  _have_ to--"

"I was the one who suggested it."

"Right, but I only meant--"

"Simon, if you want to go, I want to go."

For some reason  _this_ feels less like fighting than the rest of the evening so far. Bickering is a better word for it--and well, we do that all the time. So, I smile back. "All right, then. Maybe Saturday."

"Not working?"

I shrug. "After work." 

"Mordelia has a football game Friday afternoon, by the way. I told her we'd go."

I nod. "All right. Isn't she a little . . . _small_ , for football?"

"Not like it's a professional league, or anything. Just kiddie teams. I don't think they're really allowed to make contact or anything."

"Is this her first year playing?"

"Mm, but I'm sure the skill is genetic," Baz jokes, and I try very, very hard not to think about him in his Watford football gear, storming down the pitch all athletic and graceful and skilled. He takes another sip of his wine and dabs at his mouth with a napkin. He's got a very nice mouth-- _no! Damn it, Simon!_

The waiter comes over with the check and starts to say "whenever you're ready" but Baz is already offering out his credit card. I try to protest, because, honestly, he didn't even  _eat--_ but he only silences me with a wave of his hand like he does every time we go out, and I'm reminded why I prefer take-out. 

I think the only reason we even  _go out_ is because Baz thinks that I want to. And I feel rude saying otherwise. Add that to the list of things we should talk about, I suppose. You know, right under "SEX."

We both walk back with our hands in our pockets, and it's killing me not to reach out and touch him. Anywhere. I'd settle for his armpit. When we reach my building, he lingers on the curb instead of following me to the door.

"Not coming in?" I ask. _Merlin, this sucks. All of this. This whole thing._

He shakes his head, slowly (regretfully?). "I need to hunt. I'll come by in the morning?"

I nod. "Yeah, all right. I'll see you in the morning, then."

"See you in the morning."

 _Why am I still standing here, staring at him?_ _Do something, Simon!_ Weakly, before turning to the door, I call back, "goodnight!"

"Goodnight, Simon. I love you."

Before I have time to react, he's gone. 

**Baz**

I can't help but cackle a little to myself as I turn the corner off Snow's street. The  _I love you_ was a dirty trick, but desperate times call for desperate measures. He held out for today, and that's just fine, but tomorrow there'll be hell to pay. 

 


	3. days 3 and 4: consequences of a steak dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am THE WORST. i am so sorry. here, take this. take all of it. also i edited chapter 2 a little. i am the worst.

**Simon**

What a prick. _Goodnight,_ _Simon. I love you._ I keep hearing it over and over in my head. 

It's not like he hasn't said it before--we both have.  _I love you,_ I mean. But it's never been . . . well, like that. From such a distance. It's been muttered just before falling asleep or as a comforting whisper while one of us cries or in the middle of a passionate make out session or when he brings me a sandwich so I don't have to get up off the couch--never from opposite ends of a staircase, never as a goodbye.

I never realized how much I could miss touching another human being. And then it strikes me all of this might boil down to the way that I was raised. _Touch-starved, unhugged little orphan-boy can't have sex for fear of change yet is constantly desperate for human contact, now that he's discovered it_. Brilliant. 

I don't sleep. I just sort of lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling, hating myself for this whole mess. I want to have kissed Baz goodnight. I want Baz to be next to me right now, breathing in that soft, steady way he does while he sleeps. 

I love our sleepovers. I love having someone there when I wake up from another nightmare--I love being there for him when he does. And it strikes me now that maybe sex  _isn't_ the most intimate two people can get. And maybe I'm making a mountain out of a molehill. 

But Baz'll be back in the morning. He'll be back and we can call the whole bet off--I know him, he'll let me. As soon as I admit I'm wrong, I mean. That's all he wants, right? And then we'll put all this  _one undeniable request_ nonsense to bed and just go back to the way things were, and maybe something more. And no matter what we do or don't do, I don't need to worry because as long as Baz is there I'll be happy. 

I don't remember falling asleep, but the next thing I know I'm jolting awake, excruciating pain piercing through my gut. 

**Penny**

Baz has a key to our flat, he always has. But that doesn't mean it still doesn't scare the shit out of me to find him lurking in our kitchen first thing in the morning.

"Merlin!" I exclaim, my hand flying instinctively to my chest, like some very old-timey woman on the verge of fainting. I've never fainted once in my life, for the record. 

"Sorry," he says, grinning a little. I like that, that Baz grins now. It's been months, but the novelty hasn't worn off. 

"You're just so quiet," I say, taking a seat at the counter across from him. "It's unnerving. You'd think I'd hear someone coming in, moving about." 

"You sleep like the dead, Bunce," he reminds me. And he's right, but still. "Simon's still out cold."

"Shocking," I say, and he hands me a cup of coffee he must have made with the fancy French-press machine he brought us as a flat-warming gift. I think it only ever gets used when he's here--I hate cleaning it. No dish-washing spells I know can quite get between all the little spaces in the mesh. 

We sit in silence for awhile, Baz and me. I imagine this same scene fifteen or twenty years from now, him hunched over a crossword or something while I read the paper with Micah, the three of us waiting for Simon to come down ready for our monthly brunch, or something. _My word, Penelope. Pull yourself together._  It's still new to me, imagining my life past age twenty. 

Eventually, I remember to ask, "did either of you break last night?"

He shakes his head, and starts to move towards Simon's door. "Not yet. But I have a plan."

I fold my hands on the table in front of me. Without my glasses, he's sort of just a black-and-gray blur across the room, but I do my best at making eye-contact. "Do tell."

He cracks the door open ever-so-slightly and peers in. Then he walks back over to my side of the counter and leans back, facing me, a cocky grin on his face. "First, I'll take him out to breakfast."

I nod in approval. "Best meal of the day." 

"Then, a stroll through the park."

"Very romantic. And cliche."

"Simon's a sap for that sort of thing."

"All too true. Go on."

"I'm going to casually grab his hand while we're walking."

"What kind of hand-hold are we talking here?" I ask. Then, demonstrating with my own, "hamburger or lace-style?" It was a distinction Micah and I came up with our fourth year, both of us a little nervous about going out for the first time and willing to joke about anything before actually doing it.

He chuckles at that, then interlocks his own fingers, imitating mine. "'Lace,' I suppose. And then I'm going to trace circles over the back of his hand with my thumb, in a slow, perfect rhythm while I casually tell him how handsome he looks."

"You wore jeans, I see."

" _Tight_ jeans," he clarifies, patting his hip triumphantly. "And if he hasn't broken by then, I'll get us slushies." 

"Slushies?" 

"There's something admittedly attractive about watching someone slurp down sticky, sugary, brightly-colored slop from an oversized straw."

I let out a very ugly laugh. Do he and Simon realize how ridiculous they are? " _That's_ your master plan? Slushies?"

Baz waves his hand dismissively. "Never underestimate the power of food-related seduction." 

"It won't make your fangs come out?" 

He shakes his head. "It's sort of weird, but I think it's only when I'm about to chew on something. I don't really know how it works."

Now that we're not at Watford anymore, and now that Baz's condition is fairly common knowledge (at least, to those within our immediate circle), I often wonder if he keeps himself willfully ignorant on the biological facts of being a vampire. For example, questions I still have: is he dead? is he immortal? could he, possibly, be both? I don't pressure him, though. I can't imagine what it must be like, being the thing that killed your own mother. And the last thing I need is for Baz to spiral into another episode of self-hatred and destruction. (I dealt with it for 8 years at school. I'm done.)

"Do you think Simon finds your fangs sexy?" I ask, because it's something I've been wondering for awhile.

It catches him off guard. "What?"

I shrug. "I don't know. Could be kinky?"

"Do  _you_ find my fangs 'sexy,' Bunce?" he teases. 

"Wouldn't know. I've never seen them." I try to sound very nonchalant, but the truth is I've been dying to catch a glimpse since fifth year at school. "I mean, properly seen them." 

Baz mulls this over for a moment then, shrugging, snatches an apple from the bowl on the counter and bites into it. He swallows, then smiles at me, full-view. They're long--practically spilling out of his mouth--and sharper than any teeth on any animal I've ever seen. 

"Incredible," I say, and I mean it. 

Baz let's out a huff through his nose and puts the apple down, "of course you're  _impressed,_ of all things." His voice sounds funny.

"Well, what should I be?" I ask, cocking an eyebrow.

"Threatened? Terrified?"

"Bah." I swat at him. "You're a regular teddy bear. Hey, is the length of a vampire's fangs suggestive of the length of his . . .?"

"Bunce!" Baz exclaims, scandalized, and I can't help but burst out laughing. It takes him a moment to collect himself, but then he's laughing too. 

**Simon**

The pain is so intense, for a moment I think I might've been stabbed. 

Then I come awake a little more and realize that I'm perfectly fine--just nauseous. Incredibly, painfully nauseous. It takes me a moment, but then I remember--I practically had raw meat for dinner last night. Stupid, stupid me. 

I roll out of bed  _very slowly_ and land on my feet. It's hard to stand up straight, but I know if I don't make it to the bathroom I'll have an awful mess to clean up right here on the carpet, so I struggle the few steps from the end of my bed to the door, thinking about how no bet would ever be worth _this._ God, I hate throwing up. I feel like I have a terrible hangover--my head is pounding, and I wonder if I've got a fever as well.

When I step out into the kitchen, I see my best friend sitting at the counter, and my vampire boyfriend standing over her, fangs out, and I  _don't_ make it to the bathroom. 

**Baz**

 

Simon steps out of his bedroom, doubles over, and makes sick all over the floor.

Penny and I rush to him before he's even finished--her with a roll of paper towels in hand (where did she get that?) and me just uselessly holding his shoulders. I don't know what else to do--I panicked. "Simon?" 

He groans in response, and sort of falls forward into me. I support him with one hand and brush his hair away from his forehead with the other. He's burning up. Penelope's on the floor, covering up the vomit before one of us can step in it, but as soon as she's contained it all with a quick  **out, out!**  she shoots back up, ready to take charge. "What's wrong with him?"

"Simon?" I ask again, holding him out to examine his face. He looks wrecked--his face has actually got a green-ish tint to it. It's then I remember what he had to eat last night. 

"Steak," he says, and then he's pulling away from me, charging towards the bathroom. Bunce and I follow, me shaking my head.

"What'd he say?"

"He's an idiot," I tell her, and she raises her eyebrows at me. "He ordered steak for supper last night but he barely had them cook it--he was teasing me, I think. But now look at him."

"Do you think it's just food poisoning?" she asks. "Or . . .?"

Simon's heaving into the toilet again. Please, let it just be food poisoning. 

I look at Penelope, at a loss. "What do we do?" 

" **Early to bed, early to rise!** " she casts, pointing her ring at him. He's still puking. She goes back and forth between me and Simon, the gears clearly turning behind those intense brown eyes. Finally, she declares, "I'll run to the corner mart and get some things, tell them Simon won't be in for his shift today. Mum has a great chicken soup recipe--I can try to replicate it. Can you stay with him while I'm gone?" 

"You're going to  _cook?"_ I ask, concern clear in my voice. 

She rolls her eyes at me. "Can you stay with him?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Good. I'll be right back Simon!" And she darts away.

And just like that, my master plan to win Snow over with slushies has gone out the window. 

**Simon**

I keep drifting in and out of consciousness--usually just to throw up again. I feel hot and cold at the same time (does a fever usually come with food poisoning? Or have I caught the flu?)--it's like there's an ice cube inside my chest and a fire in my brain, all at the same time. My muscles ache, no matter how I toss or turn I can't get comfortable, and the tossing and turning just upsets my stomach. I hate being sick. I really, really hate being sick. 

What I don't hate is Baz cradling my head in his lap and stroking my forehead with his thumb while his fingers twist through the front of my hair. He's actually  _cooing_ things to me, I'm not sure that he knows I'm at least partially awake.  _''S all right'_ s and  _'shhh'_ s and, my personal favorite,  _'I'm right here, Simon.'_

Penny stepped out awhile ago, I'm not sure where to. After trying to cast a few **get well** soon's on me to no avail, Baz led me back into my bedroom and helped me under the covers, which I've been cyclically throwing off and desperately pulling back on. He climbed up on the other side and sat next to me, half-way off the bed at first but he's got both legs up here now. He kicked his shoes off, and his grey socks pocking up at the end of his trousers are the first things I see when I open my eyes again. 

"Baz?" I say, and my voice sounds horrible.

He shifts a little then, and it hurts my head. "Hey . . . how do you feel?"

I let out a noise somewhere between a groan and the word "awful." He chuckles sympathetically and pats down my hair, tracing his fingers behind my ears.

"Just don't throw up on me," he says. 

"No promises." 

"You smell awful, by the way." 

"Did I get any on me?" I ask, trying to look down at the front of my shirt. Why wouldn't he have just taken it off, then? Or magicked it clean?

"No, it's your breath."

"Well it's not my fault your vampire nose can smell my breath from here," I mumble.

"I don't have to be a vampire to smell your breath on a good day, Snow," he replies, and I almost smile. 

Instead, I say, "I don't want to get you sick."

"You can't." 

He's told me that before, that vampires don't get sick, and I can't remember ever seeing Baz ill--but then again, he'd probably never tell me if he were. Especially not back at school. He'd probably just play cool and pretend everything was fine, then go puke his guts out in our bathroom as soon as I left and cover the smell up with cologne. 

"W's your weakn's?" I ask him, and he laughs at me. I must sound drunk or something--I feel feverish and out of it. 

"What?"

"E'r'one has one."

He thinks for a moment, thens says, "you." 

"Blech, sappy."

He presses his nose into my hair and hums in agreement. At first I think he's just being cute--but then he lingers in that position and I think he's probably trying to smell my shampoo instead of my mouth. 

"Baz," I say, remembering my revelation from last night. "This bet is stupid."

"Yes," he agrees, and I feel his lips press in a light kiss against my scalp. "But I'm still going to win."

I groan. There's a light knock on the door, and Penny comes in holding a tray with a bowl on it. 

"You're up!" she exclaims, hurrying over to the side of the bed. She puts the tray down on my side table and climbs up next to me on the other side. Baz doesn't seem to mind, he just scoots over to make room. 

Penelope presses the back of her hand to my forehead and  _tsk_ _s._ "You're hotter than hellfire, Simon." 

"Thank you," I say, but I can't tell if it comes out the way I mean it to. I think she and Baz are shooting each other a look above me--I can't see it, but I can  _feel_ it. 

"Did you try any other spells on him?" she asks. Baz nods. "Food poisoning's a tricky one--when I called Mum about the soup she was telling me we may just have to wait it out, since it's not really a virus."

Bloody magic. There's a spell to cure erectile dysfunction but not fucking food poisoning? 

One of them is pushing a cup to my mouth, now, but I'm almost asleep again. 

"You need to stay hydrated _,_ Simon." I hear Penny's voice, and I catch a whiff of whatever it is she's been cooking--it actually smells wonderful. I jump up, lean over Baz, and vomit on to the floor. 

"Oh, lovely," Baz says. 

**Baz**

Poor Snow. 

Penny spells away the vomit, thank heavens, and decides against the soup. She takes the tray out with her and leaves us alone to call her mum again--neither of us really know what to  _do_ with a sick person. We always had the nurse at Watford, and our parents at home. As much as we've all been through, it's moments like these that remind me we're only nineteen. 

Simon's mumbling something in his sleep again, which I find damningly adorable. He threw up again about fifteen minutes after the second episode, and his forehead is still impossibly hot, but at least he's stopped sweating and shaking. My leg's gone numb where his head has been for a past hour, but I don't really mind. 

"Baz . . ." he mumbles, and I stroke the side of his head.

"I'm here."

"You're not going to beat me." He means the bet.

Idiot.

**Simon**

I'm drifting again, but my storm in my stomach has finally died down. I don't think there's anything left for me to vomit. 

I keep having the strangest dreams--that Baz and I are making out, but suddenly he's turned into a giant scary snake like from the Jungle Book and is sinking his teeth into my skull; that Penny and I are walking back to the flat together, and all of the sudden Agatha appears, and she's in danger, but she won't tell us why; that I'm back at Watford, but I've lost my voice, and the Mage is telling me he's made a mistake because I can't be the Chosen One after all; that I'm taking an Elocution exam in my pants; that Baz is singing the Beatles to me . . .

Wait. No, that last one's not a dream. Baz is singing--softly, but I can hear him. "Let It Be"--and I can't tell if he's doing it with magic (it's a great soothing spell, especially for children but it works on adults too) or just for fun. It's almost too quiet to hear, but I think he's got a nice voice. It's deep, but he's got the notes right. I go on pretending to be asleep so he won't stop, and eventually it must work as a lullaby, because I'm waking up and the room's dead silent. 

Well, not quiet dead silent. I can hear Baz's breathing above me--deep, steady, like he's fallen asleep. I wonder what time it is, and if he's comfortable sitting up like that. I think about moving my head so he can lay down, but I'm dead tired, and he's impossibly comfortable.

I nod off again to the rhythm of his breath, and I think that despite what he says, there's no way he's not alive. 

**Baz**

I wake up the next morning with Simon Snow's head still in my lap. I glance over at the clock on the beside table--it's nearly 9am. I nudge his shoulder, lightly. "Snow."

He moans and rolls over off of me, burying his face in the pillow. Pins and needles spark up my leg, and when I try to wiggle my toes, nothing happens. 

"Simon," I whisper. "C'mon, wake up. How are you feeling?"

He lifts himself up on one elbow, facing me. "Better," he admits. "But my head is pounding."

"You're dehydrated," I tell him. "We tried to give you water yesterday, but you wouldn't hear it. Stubborn arse, even when you're sick." 

He smiles at me, and I love that smile. I love the red in his cheeks and the light in his eyes and the wetness of his lips from all the drool currently pooled on my trouser leg. I love seeing him healthy.

Merlin, I'm far gone.

"I'm famished," he admits, though I'm not even slightly surprised. "Penny's probably already left for work. Can we get breakfast?"

I nod and he beams at me, and I'm suddenly very grateful for the stench of vomit still on his mouth, because in that moment I very nearly lose our stupid fucking wager. 

**Simon**

I order eggs, toast, bacon, pancakes, and breakfast potatoes. Baz eyes me warily, but I don't give a damn. I went a whole day without eating, and I intend to make up for it. 

"You still up for Mordelia's football match tomorrow?" he asks. He's not eating, of course, but he's ordered some fancy coffee drink I figure must have some sort of nutritional value. 

I nod. "Of course! Your family won't mind me being there?"

"They can get over it," he says with a shrug, but he doesn't meet my eyes. I know how his father feels about him being gay--about him being gay  _with me,_ the bloody Mage's Heir, even after everything--but he never comes out and says that it bothers him. He never lets show that anything bother him. 

I feel the tug in my gut I usually do right before I kiss him, but then I remember that I can't, because I'm one half of the two biggest idiots on the planet. 

"Baz," I try. "About this bet . . ." 

He shrugs. "I don't think we did anything criminal, yesterday. Sharing a bed doesn't count as snogging, does it?" 

"No," I say. "I only meant . . ." but the words won't come. Some stupid, stubborn part of me is still insisting on winning this. I think it's the cool, unaffected way he's acting right now. Like he doesn't give a damn whether I'm kissing him or not. Well. I'll show him, won't I? 

"What time's the match?"


	4. day 5, part 1: chill in the air

**Baz**

As I let myself into Snow and Bunce's flat the next morning, I expect I'll have to wake Simon for the football match. But, to my immeasurable surprise, he's already awake, and dressed, and sitting patiently at the counter as if  _ he  _ was the one used to waiting on  _ me.  _

"Good morning, darling," he says, and I'm overcome with the simultaneous urges to slap him and to tear off his trousers. 

". . . Morning," I reply, hesitant. Something is up. No way Simon bloody Snow is up before ten of his own accord. "You're up early."

He shrugs and swivels a little in his chair. "Well, didn't want to keep your poor sister waiting, did I?"

"Have I ever told you how touching it is that you prioritize my seven-year-old sister before me?"

"Mordelia's eight, Baz." 

Damn it, he's right. Time for a subject change. "Would Bunce like to join us?"

He turns and looks off in the direction of Penny's bedroom. "Nah, I think she's still out cold. She likes to stay up late on the weekends, wait for it to be morning for Micah. They video chat while he gets ready for work, I think." 

"How adorable."

"Would we do that?"

"I'm sorry?"

Snow blushes a little and his eyes shoot to the floor, giving me a stunning view of his girlish lashes. "I mean, y'know, if we were long distance."

He seems genuinely embarrassed, so I try to be soft, but it's not exactly my strong suit. "I honestly can't imagine it." 

"Because you'd miss me too much?" he asks with a grin, his eyes back on mine.

Well, welcome back, you cocky bastard. "Something like that . . . Are you ready to go?"

"Yep." He jumps to his feet and crosses the room in three strides, eager as ever. You'd think we were going to a professional match or something, not my baby sister's peewee game.

**Simon**

Normally, I wouldn’t be caught dead awake before noon on a Friday--I don’t have classes, and I made sure with work that I’d never have a shift starting before one. But last night I had this horrible nightmare that I was some sort of vampire hunter vigilante, like Van Helsing or something, and that Baz was my target. The whole time I was chasing him, and it wasn’t  _ me  _ and it wasn’t  _ Baz,  _ but it was us, in that way dreams are sometimes. And I chased him and I chased him until I finally caught him, and drove a stake right through him. 

I’m trying to ignore the Freudian implications of that. 

But, anyway, going back to sleep didn’t really feel like an option. And besides, I’m feeling a little excited for today. In all honesty, I really do like Baz's kid siblings. They're cute, and they get a right kick out of me playing with them, and they're the only members of Baz's family who have not, in recent memory, actively pursued my early death. But, I’d be lying if I said I don’t have an ulterior motive. 

_ Family man _ \--that's sexy, right? I mean, who doesn't love a guy that's good with kids? At least, when I was dating Agatha, and we went to the park one new year's and I got into a game of hide and seek with a gaggle of nine-year-olds, she downright swooned. I even heard her telling her mum all about it later after they thought I'd gone to bed. 

"Simon!" Mordelia shouts when she sees me coming down the pitch with her brother. I swear, it's like Baz isn't even there. She runs right into me and I try to sort of pick her up and swing her around, but I'm still not quite myself from the food poisoning, and she's not as small as she used to be. 

"Oof," I say, dropping her dramatically. I hope she thinks it was entirely on purpose. Well--I hope Baz thinks so, anyway. "You're really bulking up, there. All that football practice?" 

She looks a little pouty. "Yeah, and just watch, they won't even let me play."

She says it with all the ego and confidence of a third grader, and I can't help but smile. "Ah, I'll bet they do. They've got to let everyone play at least once, don't they?"

Baz elbows me and for a second I think I must have said something wrong, but Mordelia doesn't seem bothered. "You'll stay even if I don't play, right?"

"Of course."

"And you'll take me out for ice cream after?"

Little shit. Well, she's definitely her brother's sister. "Sure, don't see why not."

"Can't you make our parents take you?" Baz asks, sounding bored. "Isn't that what they're for?" 

"It'll be more special with Simon," Mordelia argues. I give Baz a smug look. Somewhere off on the field, a whistle blows, and I'm pretty sure I hear Mordelia curse under her breath before running off to join the rest of the kids in bright blue jerseys.

My feet are starting to sink into the muddy grass, so I lift them up one by one and shift my weight. Next to me, Baz sidesteps so he's squared us off from the bleachers where the rest of his family is sitting. "We don't have to go, you know."

"What, for ice cream? C'mon, when am I one to pass on sweets?" 

He almost smiles. " _ We  _ can still stop for ice cream, you glutton, I meant we don't have to go with  _ them."  _

Ah. I try to peer over his shoulder as casually as possible to assess the damages. Amidst the crowd of shivering younger siblings and exhausted mothers, I see his dad and his step mom, and--oh for fuck's sake, Fiona? 

"I thought she wasn't coming til next weekend?" I hiss. Baz just raises his eyebrows and shrugs, like he can't be held accountable for his psychotic aunt's random appearances at public events. Which, I guess he can't be, but still. 

"It'll be easier on all of us if we just go take our seats and get it over with," he tells me, and slides his hand into mine. I'm more grateful for that than I can put into words--when we first started going around, y'know, publicly and all, I was worried Baz would be ashamed to bring me in front of his family. I mean, they did spend most of my life trying to have me  _ killed,  _ for Merlin's sake. And I did sort of (accidentally) steal all the magic from their ancestral home, forcing them to relocate at least semi-permanently. But, if anything, Baz is  _ more  _ obvious when they're our audience. Like he's rubbing it in. And hey, maybe he is. I'm not exactly the trophy husband most scorned gay teens dream of to get back at their fathers, but I'm sure from Baz's point of view, "the Mage's heir" is as bad-boy as it gets. 

"Good morning, boys!" Baz's step-mum greats us pleasantly. I must admit, she's always  _ very  _ civil when I come round. I've never actually been able to tell if she likes me or if she's just very, very good at putting on face.

Baz's dad barely tries, only nods at us in brief acknowledgement. Fiona downright sneers. 

The metal bench is freezing beneath my bum when I sit down, and I can't tell if it's  _ only  _ very cold, or wet as well. It's times like these I wish Baz had body heat to steal--he doesn't even look the slightest bit uncomfortable. The whistle blows again and the kids file out onto the pitch--except for Mordelia and a few others, who are kept on the bench. Fiona makes a loud, disapproving noise at this. 

"Are you all right?" Baz asks me after a few minutes. I think I must be shivering. 

I nod, but he takes off his coat and hands it to me anyway. I try to refuse; he's just being gallant, the prick. I know he still gets cold, no matter how he tries to pretend. 

"I don't need you getting sick again," is all he says.

I keep hoping the sun will make an appearance before the game is out, but by the second half it looks more like rain than anything else. Like proper English soldiers, the kids themselves seem unfazed by the chill in the air, though all the parents are acting half mad with checking their watches. Poor Mordelia's still sidelined, and I think Fiona's about ready to spell one of the other kids down if her step-niece doesn't make it onto the field soon (is step-niece the right word? They're not related at all, I remember, and now I'm wondering what Fiona is doing here at all). 

Luckily, her chance does come, one quarter left in the match. One of the little boys on the team fell and turned his leg into a bloody mess (Baz actually winced at the sight of it, and for a moment I wasn't sure if it was out of sympathy or, you know, blood thirstiness. Pretty sure it was the former, though). Mordelia runs out onto the field looking smug as ever, and shoots a massive grin in our direction. 

"Great job, honey!" her mother cries, as if it were by some stretch of talent on Mordelia's part that the other kid fell and destroyed his shin. 

Our luck holds out, and within two minutes Mordelia's got the ball, and she's making a good run for the goal. Baz and his parents shoot to their feet to start cheering, and I let myself be dragged up with them. She gives it a good kick once she's close enough, and for a second it looks like the ball's going to veer off and miss the net by a hair's length--then I think I hear Baz cast a quiet  **and your aim be true** under his breath, but it's pretty loud out here, what with all the cheering--and she scores. 

Baz's family just about goes crazy. The three younger kids all jump up off the blanket they were sitting on on the ground and try to run up to their older sister--Baz's dad has to grab them by their shirt collars to keep them off the pitch. Baz's step-mum is snapping pictures like mad on her phone, and Fiona is yelling things that, in my opinion, belong more in sport's pub than at a children's football match. 

It's all too hard to sit down again after that, and my arse is just about frozen solid anyway, so I cut my loses and just lean against Baz's knees. I'm not  _ quite  _ sitting on his lap--at least that's what I tell myself--and he doesn't seem to mind at all. Now that Mordelia's gotten her goal, the anticipation for the end of the match is tangible in the air around the Grimm family. 

"Think we could talk her into hot cider instead?" I ask Baz, remembering the promise of ice cream. My teeth are practically chattering. He snickers and starts rubbing his hands against my legs.  _ For friction,  _ I remind myself, and for what must be the millionth time, I curse this stupid fucking bet. 

**Baz**

As it would turn out, not even two hours outside in the freezing, damp autumn can dissuade my siblings from celebratory ice cream. We find a little indoor place and Simon and Daphne go to find a table with the kids while my father, Fiona, and I get in line to order. 

"Nice of you to come to the game," my father says conversationally, but I can still detect the edge in his voice. The unspoken,  _ but did you have to bring your boyfriend?  _

Fiona, as always, is far less discreet. "Still banging the Mage's boy, then?" 

My father looks about ready to die, so I try my best to seem disapproving. "Nice, Auntie. It's very good to see you, too." 

She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, whatever."

"What are you doing here, anyway?" I ask, not because it's not good to see her (which, quite frankly,  _ it isn't)  _ but because, historically, she's really never given a damn about my father and Daphne's kids. She's all about the Pitch family, my aunt. It's not that she  _ dislikes  _ them, I don't think, it's just that she's incurably indifferent. 

"You know me," she says with a shrug. "Can't resist a good football match."

She's very pointedly avoiding my father's gaze. All right then, so something's going on there. Great. I make the decision not to care and step forward to order a hot sundae for Snow. 

When we get back to the table, the twins are attempting to braid his hair and Daphne is asking about classes. Like the valiant knight of lore, I swoop in to relieve him from the torturous toddlers, and present the ice cream in front of him in one graceful motion. He beams up at me, the way he only ever does when I'm providing him with food. 

In my arms, the twins struggle for dominance. Then Fiona hands them each their kiddie cups of vanilla and they are appeased. 

We sit in relative silence for a while, all of us either eating or pretending to eat to avoid conversation. I can't help but wonder if things will always be this way when I bring Simon home--if I'm still bringing Simon home, that is--even when we're old and married and domesticated. 

I look over at baby Malcolm--who isn't quite a baby anymore--and say a silent prayer that for his own sake he grows up straight.  And, you know,  _ human.  _

"So, Basil," Daphne begins, breaking the beautifully peaceful yet tremendously awkward silence. "How have you been? I feel like we haven't heard from you in ages."

"That's because he's too busy with  _ Simon,"  _ Mordelia says obnoxiously, drawing out the  _ i  _ in Snow's name like it's a meter long. She makes a kissy face at the twins, who erupt into laughter. 

"Something along those lines, yes," I agree. Next to me, Snow turns tremendously red. 

"Hmm yes," my father says, in a manner that makes it difficult to gauge whether he is entirely disinterested or thinking far too hard on the subject. 

" _ Do you  _ kiss?" Mordelia asks me, and it feels suddenly like a very important question. I pause, looking back and forth between my parents, and Fiona, and Snow. The air grows heavy between all of us, and the lines between adult and child and those in-between becomes highly pronounced. 

"Well, of course we do," I say eventually, as nonchalant as possible. "We're  _ dating. _ "

"Will you kiss now?" she asks nexts, and honestly, I should have seen that one coming. 

Simon begins scratching irritably at the back of his neck but says nothing. I try to laugh, but it comes out very forced. "Well, no, not right now . . ." 

" _ Why?" _

"Because it's not something to be doing in public," my father snaps. I feel anger like a starburst in my chest. 

Mordelia makes a face, like she's about to call him on his bullshit. And then, bless her, she  _ does _ : "you and Mummy kiss in public."

"Yes, well, Mummy and I are . . ." he trails off, lost, and looks to Fiona. She shakes her head at him and takes another bite of ice cream, offering no support to either party. I really do think my poor aunt is torn between elation at my having found a bloke, and intense hatred for the fact that that bloke is Simon bloody Snow. 

"Straight?" I offer, sarcastically chipper.

" _ Adults,"  _ he clarifies sternly, still refusing to meet my eyes. And I know that I'm supposed to let it drop, because that's just how it goes. He'll never tell me that being gay is wrong, or that he disapproves, or that he thinks it's something I'm perfectly capable of growing out of if I'd only apply myself--no, he'll never say any of that. He'll just be dismissive and absent and cruel in an entirely different manner. 

But I'm just whining, really. There's really no use complaining. I've held my own for this long--and, quite frankly, I can't imagine us functioning any other way. Simon, though, is practically steaming beside me. I try to will him to just shut up and let it blow over, to communicate with my eyes, only he's not looking at me. He's staring dead through my father, and if he hadn't burnt out all his magic last year fighting the Humdrum, there'd probably be lasers shooting out his eyes right now. 

“Basil’s an adult  _ too, _ ” Mordelia points out, and it’s loaded with all the resentment and admiration of a much-younger siblings. I honestly can’t tell if she’s trying to stick up for me or instigate the entire bloody situation. I decide it’s time to change gears.

“How about you Mordelia, kissing anyone yet?”

She flushes deep scarlet. “Of course not!” 

“Keep it that way,” Simon confides in her, and I notice most of the anger has washed off his features as he leans in conspiratorially to my eight-year-old sister’s ear. “It leads to nothing but trouble.” 

“Is that what I am, Snow? Trouble?” This is, admittedly, a  _ bit  _ too flirtatious for a family meal, but it was also an impossible opportunity to pass over. I mean, if we’re being completely honest, Snow is more likely than the average bloke to walk himself into such a corner, but I believe in capitalizing on moments as they come. 

“Oh, absolutely,” he replies and under the table he pinches my thigh. 

I do a right good job of not reacting to this and direct maintaining eye contact with my father. 

“How are classes?” he asks me.

“Oh, they’re going very well.” 

“Simon?” Daphne asks, because she likes for everyone to feel included. 

“A’right,” he manages through a mouthful of ice cream. 

A blanket of awkwardness settles over our happy little party, and everyone’s eyes drift towards the floor. Then, abruptly, Fiona stands. 

“I’ll be having company at the apartment tonight, Basil,” she tells me. “We’ll be all gone by morning, but I just wanted to let you know in case you wanted to make--” here, she winks--”other plans.” 

“Well,” I say, after the beat of silence that follows her innuendo. “We should be off as well. Simon’s got work this evening.”

It’s a lie, but luckily Snow catches on and just stands up besides me. Daphne gets up too, to hug us farewell, and Mordelia rolls her eyes at me affectionately. The smaller ones are still too absorbed in their explosive eating endeavours, and I don’t quite feel like interrupting. 

My father looks up at me and gives a curt nod in farewell, and I’m in the process of pushing my way out the door when I glance over my shoulder and see Simon standing by his side. 

“Mr. Grimm,” I hear him say. “Thank you for the ice cream. And I just wanted to let you know, your son lied to you about me having work tonight. We’re probably just going to go get off on my couch--he’s very good at it, you know. Have a lovely evening, all!”

And before I have time to even process what just happened, Simon is sliding his hand into mine and pulling me the rest of the way out the door.

I catch the wicked grin on Fiona’s face as we pass by the shop window on our way down the street, and I suppose if nothing else, Simon may have finally won  _ her  _ approval. 

 


	5. day 5, part 2: everything else

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I TOOK TEN YEARS TO UPDATE and I am VERY sorry! School started and work got busy and ah! So much. But to make up for it, how about two chapters at once? Do you hate me any less now?
> 
> //ALSO fair warning, part 2 gets . . . spicy. Also, if it's badly written LET ME KNOW AND I WILL TAKE IT DOWN AND TRY AGAIN! I do not write zesty make outs very often! I am a very asexual little bug! Proceed with caution! I am so sorry! Don't be afraid to tell me it's terrible but please be kind I am soft! 
> 
> I love you all! 
> 
> AND I didn't edit. At all. No excuse, just laziness.

  **Simon**

I guess what I did with Baz’s family was a little stupid and impulsive, but when have I ever been anything else? I’m so sick of watching the way his father makes him act--it’s like I can actually watch as Baz sinks layers and layers deeper inside himself with every disregarding glance. I can’t reach him wherever he goes.

If Baz is mad at me for it, he doesn’t say. We just walk along, holding hands (which I always appreciate us doing out in the open like this. I think the novelty of holding hands with a boy for the first time still hasn’t quite worn off for me. In a weird way, I like having witnesses) and not making any conversation.

When we reach the train station, I stop a tug him back to me. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he says.

“Are you angry?”

He shakes his head without meeting my eyes, but something in his expression tells me it’s more ‘cause he’s thinking than that he’s avoiding me. After a moment he asks me, “what would you have me do?”

“Uh,” is what I say back, which sounds incredibly intelligent I’m sure.

“If you won the bet, I mean. What would your undeniable request be?”

Oh. I run a hand through my hair, a bit sheepish. “I haven’t really thought that far ahead.”

 _I’m expecting to lose,_ I mean.

“I see.”

“What about you?” I ask.

He sneers at me--I swear, he bloody _sneers,_ like we’re sixteen again and he wants me to think he’s out to get me. “That’s classified information, Snow.”

I realize something then. “Hold on--why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason.”

“You bastard!”

“What?”

“You were thinking about it!”

He rolls his eyes and makes like he’s looking down the track for our train. “I haven’t a clue what you’re on about.”

“You were gonna kiss me, but you’re afraid of the bet, so you asked what I’d make you do and if it was something bearable you would have done it!”

The corner of his mouth twists up in spite of itself and he says, “maybe.”

“Ugh! Just do it then!”

“What?”

“End it--it’s bloody torturous anyway, we both think so. Just kiss me and be done with it.”

“No.”

“What?!”

“No. If you’re so anxious for it all to end, you’re perfectly welcome to kiss _me._ ”

“Well I--but . . . no! You--argh!” Articulate as ever. I try to come up with something more, but our train is pulling up and Baz seems to have lost interest in that particular conversation.

He sort of half-heartedly drags me into the car after him and we find two seats by the far exit. He takes the window seat and I end up with some strange old man next to me who reeks of tobacco and garlic, and has hands that appear permanently dirt-stained.

“Tickets,” a voice says from behind, and Baz hands off the second set from the ones we bought this morning.

I scoot a little closer to Baz when the man next to me lets out a very wet-sounding cough without covering his mouth. He smirks and wraps his arm around my shoulders, and next thing I know I’m waking up at our stop.

“Wakey-wakey, Simon,” he teases, in the sort of voice you use with very small children.

I’m groggy and disoriented, and it takes me a few moments to remember we’re on a train. “Wha?”

“C’mon, up,” he says, and hoists me to my feet by my elbow. The germy gent next to us is gone, and we exit the car without obstacle.

It takes me the whole walk through the station until we’re standing outside in the crisp London air for me to feel properly awake. I fall into step behind Baz, who’s nearly making a sprint in the direction of my flat. “Plans for tonight?”

“Do we?” he asks, as if the _we_ were implied, which I admittedly think is rather cute.

“Well, I did tell your dad I’d we’d be getting off on my couch tonight.”

“Hmm, well, one of us will have to break in order for that to happen, now won’t it?”  

“Or we could call the whole thing off,” I say, casually as possible. I try to grab his hand but he steps just out of reach, and I can’t tell if it’s on purpose.

After a few seconds pass and he still hasn’t said anything, I try again. “Baz.”

“What?”

“Why don’t we just call the bet off?”

“Because,” he says, and I can tell that he’s angry but I don’t know _why._

“Because why?”

“Because that’s not how wagers work, Snow.”

We’re turning onto my street now, and I’m following behind him up the stairs like a kicked dog. He lets himself into the apartment without stopping to see if I’m even still behind him, and without looking at me he goes and sits on the couch.

I kick off my muddy shoes and go over to the kitchen, put the kettle on for tea. I’m watching the back of his head as he channel surfs they telly. He’s definitely mad at me, I can tell in his posture. He’s far too rigid to look as relaxed as he’s trying to appear. And he’s definitely not paying attention to the television because he’s changing stations way too fast.

Abandoning the tea, I go over and sit next to him--well, sort of next to him. It’s a three-cushion couch, and we’re each on a far end, so there is an unconquerable terrain of awkward space between us.

“Hey,” I say, very smoothly.

“ _Hey,”_ he snaps back, and there’s a bite to his tone.

“What’s the matter?”

He drops the remote and looks at me, his eyes all full of fire and fury. “ _You.”_

“I’m sorry?”

“You go and you make this bloody wager--”

“I’m not the one who turned it into a wager!”

“--Fine, you make this bloody _rule_ then! That we can’t kiss just because you got scared and instead of talking to me about it like a fucking _adult,_ Simon--” He cuts himself short, like his anger is a mile ahead of his mouth, and just stares at me like it’s my turn.

I, on the other hand, have absolutely nothing to say. Nothing I _can_ say. He’s . . . well he’s pretty much got me figured out, hasn’t he? And while I’m trying to figure out how to put into words how I never meant for it to escalate so quickly, and, again, _he’s_ the one who turned it into a fucking bet, and how fucking dare he accuse me of being immature when he had every opportunity to talk as well, what comes out of my mouth is: “I’m sorry.”

He swallows and drops his eyes to my adam’s apple. “Me too.”

I didn’t realize it, but as he was shouting he was also moving closer, bridging the space between us. And now he leans in, like he’s finally going to do it--snog me and end this whole stupid thing--but at the last second he shifts up, and plants a kiss on my nose instead.

“Bastard!” I exclaim, and he laughs a little. After a moment, I add, “well, if this is going to keep on, we may as well set some distinctions.”

“Distinctions?” he asks, still very close. His breath his like a cool gust of wind.

“About what counts as breaking and what doesn’t.”

“Well,” he says, and then his lips are back against my skin--my cheek this time. And then my temple, and then the base of my ear. “There’s a whole world between kissing and everything else.”

I barely have time to register that Penelope said almost the exact same thing to me earlier this week before Baz is biting me (the playful kind! Not the vampire kind!) on the ear.

He moves to my jaw next, taking the skin very gently between his teeth, but using enough pressure so that I feel it. All right. Fine. Two can play at this game. I cock my head to the side and out of his reach, then move in for his neck. As I start sucking at the skin, he grabs a fistful of my hair and pulls. He’s still only next to me on the couch, one leg drawn up under him and the other on the floor. I think the kettle’s going off, but I ignore it. With my left hand, I hook him around the knee and pull him around so he’s straddling me, and we both take a moment to groan. (Poorly thought out move, Snow. Now you’re equally sexually frustrated.)

He recovers faster than I do, and with supernatural speed he manages to get under my jumper, untuck my shirt, and slide his hands under the fabric. Pressing our noses together, he keeps one splayed open at the base of my abdomen, and traces the other around my hip and up to the small of my back, then just beneath my shoulder blades. I feel him smile as I squirm.

I try to remember I’m the one who taught _him_ how to do all this, and trace my own path under his arms, up the back of his neck, and take two fistfulls of those wavy black locks. This gives me control enough to turn his head so I can resume my hickey.

The hand he has on my stomach begins to creep lower, and slips under the elastic of my pants. _Merlin, Morgana, and Methusela._

I suck hard on the skin between my teeth, then press my tongue against the barely-purple spot I manage to make. One downside to dating a vampire, he does not bruise at all easily. All I’m saying is that sometimes it would be nice to see the fruits of my labors.

He still won’t dare risk sucking at my neck, so I guess I’ll always hold weight in that department. But Baz has rather clever fingers, and he’s using them to his advantage in this test of endurance. I have the vague impression we were in the midst of a conversation just moments ago, but I can’t for the life of me remember what it was about.

His hand floats over my jeans and down my thigh, then back up towards my groin. He’s massaging, feeling me get hard under his touch like the teasing arsehole he is. Then his fingers are back up at base of my navel.

“Can I?” he asks, giving one very slight but very impactful tug on the band of my boxers.

I forget how words work and give a sort of affirming grunt that comes out like, “uh-yuh.”

His other hand disappears from the base of my neck and begins to unbutton my trousers. His hand glides with impossible grace under two layers of fabric (I’m not wearing very tight trousers, granted) and he wraps his fingers around my--my . . . well, you know what it bloody is.

It’s different, and a little awkward what with my bottoms still on and everything, but it isn’t _bad._ It’s actually . . . It’s nice.

Then his fingers move a little and I want to die. My leg jerks a little unintentionally, and he’s almost unseated from my lap. He’s laughing, the git, and our foreheads nearly knock together.

“Is this okay?” he asks, and he sounds so sincere I suddenly feel very choked up--and, still, entirely wrecked.

“Mhm.”

“Simon.”

I manage a deep breath. “Well, it’s a little hard to . . . with your hand I mean . . .”

“Oh!” He releases, giggling. “Sorry.”

“Duh-don’t. Be.”

He presses his forehead to mine and looks into my eyes. “Was that okay?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Would you tell me if it weren’t?”

I pause for a moment, trying to come up with a genuine answer. “Yes,” I decide, and he breaks into a dazzling smile.

“Do you want me to keep going?” he asks, and his hand is back against the top of pants.

I nod once.

“Okay . . .” he says. “Kiss me first.”

The mood is dead. “What?!”

“C’mon, baby,” he says, gliding his hand down my fucking thigh again--and since when does he call me _baby?!_ I hate that I think it’s kind of hot. “You have to kiss me first.”

“You--you prick!” I exclaim, dropping my head back against the top of the couch. Remarkably, I can only feel myself getting harder. My brain and my cock are absolutely _not_ on the same page here.

“How bad could it be?” he asks, stroking above that damnable layer of denim. “What do you think I’d make you do?” His mouth moves up my jaw, leaving a trail of spit behind. “Be my slave for a day? Do all the laundry for a month?” He nips my ear again. “Turn you into my immortal companion?”

I’m really about to swallow my pride and just get it over with when I hear the key in the lock.

**Penelope**

I need to get my own bloody flat.


	6. day 6: the bees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> final chapter!!! ahhh!!  
> i've also changed the title because.... quite frankly it was just a stupid place-holder i put in for myself because i thought no one would read this anyway ? but you guys did, and you're awesome, and i love you so much! i am so, so grateful for your kind words and endless patience as i write around work and school and falling tragically behind on my nanowrimo (pipe dreams, my dears. pipe dreams indeed).  
> i had so much fun writing this, and i love these characters so much. thank you so much for all the support! and even though it's done, i still love hearing from all of you <3 thank you thank you thank you <3

**Simon**

There’s a reason we never hang out at Baz’s flat, and that reason is it’s also his aunt’s flat.

Baz hasn’t taken much to decorating in the year that he’s lived here, and so the entire place just reeks _Fiona._ It’s exactly the sort of decor one would expect from an aged-goth spinster, only with a lot of magical nonsense mixed in--like the cauldron hanging over the stove, or the wand-polish she keeps next to her bountiful supply of hairspray. 

We're at Baz's today because last night with Penny was . . . awkward. Again. We apologized, of course, (fourteen times, actually) but she sort of insisted we give-in and have a  _real_ conversation about where we are in our relationship, and all that, and to hell with the bloody wager. She also told us we had to find somewhere other than our shared flat to have this conversation, because if she walked in on us a third time, she'd have to "gouge out [her] eyes with a spoon, set them on fire, and fling the ashes into the Thames." A little dramatic if you ask me, but point made. 

Baz agreed, and told me to meet him at his flat the next afternoon, and that he had a plan for how we could work out this "issue" we've been having, but he wouldn't get specific. The whole thing's got me wildly nervous. 

When I first got here, Baz was out hunting. When he came back, he made me stand in the hall while he finished tidying up inside. Apparently Fiona had kept true to her word and gone, but she'd left the place in a right state of disaster for her nephew to clean up. Baz says this is typical Fiona, to be expected and all, but I can't help feel like this time she might have done it on extra special purpose, to embarrass him in case we took up her offer to spend last night. 

When he does come back, Baz leads me by the hand to the red pleather sofa that acts as the division between the end of the living room area and the hallway behind it. Fiona’s flat has a very open floorplan, and she’s arranged the furniture to give the illusion of walls, so that the back of the couch and the corner of the buffet make a sort of faux-hallway. 

“Wait here,” Baz says, easing me down, then disappears off in the direction of his bedroom. For my part, I try to take up as little space as possible. For all I know, Fiona will be able to smell that I’ve been here when she returns, and the thought alone is mortifying. 

When Baz appears behind the couch a moment later, he’s holding his laptop suspended in the air with one hand. He steps over the back of the couch with ease and settles in next to me, then places the computer down on the coffee table and opens the screen.

It is open to Pornhub.

“Um, darling--”

“Shut up,” he advises me, and I do. “Penny told me that your hesitance seems to come from a lack of proper understanding--”

“ _Penny_ told you--?!”

“Hush,” he interrupts. “Now, I’m not sure how your Normal education went, but I can speak for Watford’s sex education and I know that it is relatively nonexistent. _I_ don’t particularly consider myself an experienced teacher, so I thought we could go the route of most sexually frustrated young men.”

“And watch porn.”

“Obviously.”

“. . . Together.”

“Well it doesn’t _have_ to be together, Snow!” he exclaims, and I think I might have made him blush. Then again, he always comes back a little rosy-cheeked from a hunt. “I just thought, you know. In case you had questions.”

Questions. About how sex works between two lads. About how sex works, full stop. 

I hate that this is actually a good idea. 

As usual under pressure, I go the route of teasing. “Are you . . . _familiar_ with this website, Basil?”

He shoots me shameless side-eye and a cocky smirk. “Oh, very.”  

"Merlin. All right then, pick one."

"Now?"

"Whatd'you mean  _now?_ It was your idea!"

"Yes, well I didn't think--" he stops himself short, runs a hand through his hair. I wonder, briefly, if I'm allowed to kiss him now. "Fine. But you have to pick."

"Why me? I don't know anything about it."

"You don't know anything about porn?" He seems almost scandalized. 

I feel myself turning red. "No! I mean . . . yeah, I mean no. I've never tried it before."

"You've  _never_ watched porn? Not ever, not even one time?"

I shake my head. It's the truth. I guess when I was going through all that weird, puberty, body-changing/weird-new-feelings crap, I had a lot of other stuff on my plate. Curiosity about whether or not I'd survive another year at school sort of won out over the sex stuff. And then . . . I don't know. I had a girlfriend. I didn't think you were supposed to watch porn if you had a girlfriend. 

"That's tragic," Baz informs me, and takes full reign over the keyboard. 

Then something strikes me, and it slips out my mouth before I consider whether or not I really want the answer. "Did you ever do this in our room?"

"At Watford?"

"Yeah."

"Of course."

"Christ." 

Baz just rolls his eyes, like I'm being unreasonable, and slides the laptop back to me. There are three windows open now.

"Choose," he tells me. 

The options he's given me aren't very appealing, to be quite honest. The descriptions are terribly vague, and there are all sorts of tags along the bottom that I don't understand. "Dom," "sub," and then . . . other words, which I know even out of context are R-rated. I've got my eyes pealed for the letters BDSM, because I  _do_ bloody know what that one means, and I'm curious about my boyfriend's preferences, but it doesn't show up in any of them. I end up just going with the tab in the middle. I don't have a reason. 

**Baz**

Simon does  _not_ like porn.

Or . . . well, quite frankly, I don't think he gets it. 

"That makes no sense!" he says at one point. "He just told that other bloke he was straight, now he's blowing this guy in the middle of the stables? Those poor horses. Aren't there cameras?"

I keep trying to tell him no one watches porn for the plot, but he's really invested. And I have to admit, every time someone takes their cock out, I become deeply uncomfortable. Maybe this is the sort of thing one's meant to watch alone. 

Luckily, the one he picked was only about a half-hour long, and I manage to spend about eight minutes of it in the bathroom, pretending to piss. When the credits start to roll, Simon turns to me with a look of absolute confusion. 

"It's not  _really_ like that, is it?"

I sigh. "I don't imagine so, no. That's just sort of . . . the idea, I guess." 

"It was weird."

"Yeah, it was weird." 

"Can we try something else?"

I nearly choke. "You want to watch another one?"

Simon goes bright scarlet. "No! Bloody hell, no. I meant . . . well I sort of have an idea." 

Ten minutes later, I'm laying on my back on my bed with my legs apart and bent at the knees so my feet are flat on the comforter (fully clothed, mind you), and Simon is standing at the edge of the mattress in front of me, also fully clothed. It is taking every ounce of Pitch-bred composure not to jump to my feet and fling myself out of the window from sheer humiliation. 

 _We'll act it out,_ he said.  _Y'know, with our trousers on._

Bastard.

“And you _want_ to be underneath?” he asks, and it takes every last bit of self-control I possess not to whack him upside the head for being such a blubbering idiot.

“ _Yes,”_ I assure him, feeling like a slut (despite the fact that I’m a bloody fucking virgin). "For right now anyway."

"What's that mean?!"

"Sex isn't . . ." I falter. How to put this into words? "It doesn't always have to be same, right? Like in the video." 

"They switched positions." 

"Yeah. We don't have to do that." 

"But we could?" He winces, unsure again. "Hypthetically?" 

"Right." 

“Okay.” Snow nods a bit to himself, and I can see that familiar swagger returning to his countenance. His shoulders straighten out a bit, too. “And so, hypothetically, at this juncture, I would--”

“Put your cock in me, yeah,” I interrupt bluntly, because this is honestly painful and the sooner we get it over with the better.

Simon blushes at first, but then the blush turns into a laugh. He swats my legs away and kneels at the foot of the bed. I sit up so we’re level.

“I’m sorry I’m such a git,” he says.

I roll my eyes. “And it’s only taken you nine years to realize.”

He chuckles but then goes blank-faced and silent, which means he’s really thinking hard about something. He’s yet to master the art of multitasking--and you had better believe, for Simon Snow, thinking and facial expressions are indeed tasks.

Finally, he says, “I guess I should thank you for that.”

“What? Helping you realize you’re a git?”

“Ha-ha. No.”

“What then?”

Color rises up in his cheeks again. “Well, for waiting for me. All those years at school, I mean.”

Oh. He’s talking about my unbearable crush on him that lasted from the age of 12 to . . . well, right now. (I often reflect on admitting to being in love with him the whole time we've known each other and think, _wow, that was stupid.) (_ Mostly I’m just embarrassed.) “Well, it wasn’t on purpose.”

“Guess I’m just that irresistible,” he jokes, and it comes out dopey and lame--two more things I love about him.

“Are you glad that I did, then?” I ask. “‘Wait’ for you?”

I don’t explain that I wasn’t waiting for _him_ so much as I was for someone to put me out of my misery. Details. 

“Ah, Baz,” he says, and he’s scratching the back of his neck like a bashful schoolboy. When he’s finally able to meet my eyes, I’m worried he’s going to start crying. “Of course I am.”

“Hey,” I say, shifting my own legs underneath me so I can lean closer to him. I reach up to catch a tear as it falls down his cheek. “What’s the matter?”

He sniffles very noisily. “Just . . . I love you, you know that?”

I smile--not laughing _at_ him, but because I don’t know what the hell else to do--and lean in so we're close. Why is he crying?! “I know, hey, of course I know. I’m just that irresistible.”

He makes an effort at a laugh, but it just comes out wet and snotty.

“And I love you too,” I add. “Very much.”

He pinches his eyes shut and gives one rather vigorous nod. “I’m sorry.”

“What is it?”

“I’m just . . . very glad to have you.”

Well, now _I_ might start crying. Git.

“Even though I’m a prick sometimes?”

“Even though you’re a prick _most_ of the time.”

“Even though I’m lousy at talking?”

“Even though we both are.”

“Even though I’m a vampire?”

He actually laughs that time. “Sometimes, I think _especially_ because you’re a vampire.”

“Oh, so you like the fangs then?” I tease, mock-barring them at him.

His face is still a soggy mess but the tears have stopped, at least. “Very much.”

“You’re pretty kinky for someone who’s afraid of sex.”

“I’m not afraid of _sex,”_ he says, giving my shoulder a playful shove. I let it knock me back onto the bed with a devilishly seductive look in my eye, because if I can’t tease him, what’s the point of living? “I’m afraid of . . . change, I think.”

“Hmm. Sounds like a problem for your therapist.”

“Baz!”

“Oh, come off it. I was kidding.” I slide my hands slowly up either of his arms to the elbow, and then back down again. He closes his eyes and leans in to the touch, humming softly. It would be so easy to just go on from here. To keep feeling him, hearing him hum at my touch, see how far we'd get this time, _this time_. Pull him down on top of me and absolutely ravage him.

Instead, I grab him by the wrist and pull him down in a quick, unsexy jerk, so his chest is against mine, and our faces inches apart. “Sex is not important. I’d wait for you forever, Simon Snow.”

“Really?”

“Really--and, if we’re being _quite_ honest, after all the years of wanting you, it’d be a disgrace if I hadn’t learned to take care of things myself by now.”

He lets out a laugh so ugly and outrageous I have to laugh too, and then we’re both cracking up, side-by-side on the bed, our hands loosely intertwined between us.

**Simon**

I do not deserve Baz. 

He is so patient, and so gentle, and so kind. He tries so hard to hide it, but I know that it's there. It took me a damned long time to realize it, but the discovery was well worth the wait.

After we lay there next to each other on his bed for a few minutes, or maybe hours, or days, I realize we still haven't broken the bet. It has been nearly a week since I last kissed this beautiful boy stretched out next to me and well, that's simply criminal. 

I decide not to go about it with any sort of build-up or finesse. The whole thing is my bloody fault anyway, or mostly my fault at the least. I prop myself up on one elbow so I'm facing him, and stare down into his eyes. They're closed at first, and I think maybe he's sleeping, but they flutter open after a moment.

"Hey," I say.

"Hello."

And then I kiss him. Just like that.

He's stunned at first, I think, because it takes him a few moments to start kissing me back. When he does though, it's full force, and next thing I know he's pulled me back on top of him again, and I've got my knees up on either side of his hips. 

I run my fingers up into his hair, his lovely black curls, and he's got one hand pressed up against my abdomen, the other wrapped around the back of my head. I think I feel the magic pulsing through him where he touches me--like two lovely warm spots tethering me to a familiar feeling I once knew so well. Vaguely, I remember the story Penny told of the two mages in love, with incompatible magic.

Baz and I  _are_ rather incompatible, at times. But there's always been at least one thing we can agree on. 

I shift my mouth from his lips, to his jaw, to his neck, and bite down savagely. He hisses but doesn't pull away, only holds me tighter in place. His hand on my stomach starts to drift down and around and back up again, in slow, tantalizing circles. Clumsily, my hands fall down from his hair and start searching for the top button of his shirt. When he figures out what I'm doing, the hand at the back of my head disappears and he helps me undress him. 

"Imagine how much worse it would be," he says, and I hear that smile I love so much in his voice. "If Fiona walked instead of Bunce." 

I break off from his neck to laugh, and he takes the opportunity to pull my face back to his. He's smiling still, and it's such a beautiful smile, not a sneer. He never used to smile before. Each one still feels like a triumph. I kiss him again. And again. And again. 

Once I reach the bottom button of his shirt, he puts both hands on my chest and lifts up. "I meant it, Simon. We should wait til you're ready."

"Fuck it," I tell him, and I realize that I mean it. "I'm done waiting."

I've never been the most self-aware of people. I didn't know I had magic til the Mage arrived and whisked me off to Watford. I didn't know I had created the Humdrum til he showed up with my face. And I didn't know I was in love with Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch (honestly, what an  _awful_ name) til I watched him try to light himself on fire on Christmas Eve.  

Right now, there is a beautiful, half-clothed, magical vampire boy beneath me. And despite what he thinks, he is so, so alive. And I love him, more than any words I know can say. 

What else matters?

**Penelope**

"I'm not being  _judgey,"_ I protest, and take another bite of stale doughnut. 

From within the window on my computer screen, Micah rolls his eyes. 

"I mean it!" I go on. "If they did have sex, I'm glad. The sexual tension in this house could be cut with a knife. I was worried what might happen if they went on any longer."

"They might have just fallen asleep," Micah rationalizes. He's just looking for debate--that's how we work, though. We always question each other, even when we agree on something. It's actually quite nice, most of the time. Keeps the conversations lively, at least. 

"I just hope they go to Baz's flat from now on," I confess. "I mean, I love them both dearly, but I've seen more inches of Simon's skin this past week than I ever needed to see." 

"Oh please, I know you've seen him naked." 

"I said  _than I need to see,"_ I clarify. "Not that I haven't seen before." 

"Shall I show you some of my skin?" Micah asks. "You know, to cleanse your memory." 

I snort into a sip of tea. "Please! It's eight o'clock in the morning, at least wait til noon to act so naughty."

"It's 2am here!" he protests, and we both laugh. Gosh, I do miss him. 

"Who do you think broke first?" he asks. He means the wager; I told him all about it.

"Definitely Baz."

"What? No way."

"You should  _see_ the way he looks at him," I insist. 

Micah just shakes his head. "Baz's always had good self-restraint. My money's on Simon."

"Definitely Baz," I repeat. 

"Definitely Simon," he counters.

* * *

 

 **  
** _ Epilogue _

**Baz**

Oh, and, for the record, we _did_ have sex. Not that night, but shortly after.

I think all we needed was a candid conversation. Once that was out of the way, well . . . It was a bit like two trains crashing together, or perhaps closer to one of those nature documentaries about sexually stimulated bumblebees.

But if you think I’m going to debase myself by describing to you how utterly amazing it was; how it felt to have another person’s skin pressed so close against mine; how soft he was, how hard I tried not to break him; how he moaned; how his lips never left my flesh; how tightly we held each other; how human I felt; how _good_ it felt to have Simon Snow inside of me . . .

Well, now which of us is the pervert?

 


End file.
